III
SAYRE had been fishing for some time with the usual result when theslightest rustle of foliage caught his ear. He looked up. She wasstanding directly behind him.
He got to his feet immediately and pulled off his cap. That was too bad;he was better looking with it on his head.
"I wondered whether you'd come again," he said, so simply and naturallythat the girl, whose grey eyes had become intent on his scanty hair witha surprised and pained expression, looked directly into his smiling andagreeable face.
"Did you come to fish this pool?" he asked. "You are very welcome to. _I_can't catch anything."
"Why do you think that I am out fishing?" she asked in a curiously clear,still voice--very sweet and young--but a voice that seemed to grow out ofthe silence instead of to interrupt it.
"You are fishing, are you not? or at least you came here to fish lastevening?" he said.
"Why do you think so?"
"You had a net."
He expected her to say that it was a hammock which she was trailingthrough the woods in search of two convenient saplings on which to hangit.
She said: "Yes, it was a net."
"Did my being here drive you away from your favourite pool?"
She looked at him candidly. "You are not a sportsman, are you?"
"N--no," he admitted, turning red. "Why?"
"People who take trout in nets are fined and imprisoned."
"Oh! But you _said_ you had a net."
"It wasn't a fish net."
He waited. She offered no further explanation. Sometimes she looked athim, rather gravely, he thought; sometimes she looked at the stream.There was not the slightest hint of embarrassment in her manner as shestood there--a straight, tall, young thing, grey-eyed, red-lipped, slim,with that fresh slender smoothness of youth; clad in grey wool, hatless,thick burnished hair rippling into a heavy knot at the nape of thewhitest neck he had ever seen.
The stiller she stood, apparently wrapped in serious inwardcontemplation, the stiller he remained, as though the spell of her sereneself-absorption consigned him to silence. Once he ventured, stealthily,to smack a mosquito, but at the echoing whack there was, in her slowlyturned face, the calm surprise of a disturbed goddess; and he felt likesaying "excuse me."
"Do they bite you?" she asked, lifting her divine eyebrows a trifle.
"Bite me! Good heavens, don't they bite you? But I don't suppose theydare----"
"What?"
"I didn't mean 'dare' exactly," he tried to explain, feeling his earsturning a fiery red, and wondering why on earth he should have made sucha foolish remark.
"What _did_ you mean?"
"N--nothing. I don't know. I say things and--and sometimes," he added ina burst of confidence, "they don't seem to _mean_ anything at all." Tohimself he groaned through ground teeth: "What an ass I am. What on earthis the matter with me?"
She considered him in silence, candidly; and redder and redder grew hisears as he saw that she was quietly inspecting him from head to foot withan interest perfectly unembarrassed, innocently intent upon herinspection.
Then, having finished him down to his feet, she lifted her eyes, caughthis, looked a moment straight into them, then sighed a little.
"Do you know," she said, "I ought not to have come here again."
"Why?" he asked, astonished.
"There's no use in my telling you. There was no use in my coming. Oh, Irealise that perfectly well now. And I think I'd better go----"
She lingered a moment, glanced at the stream running gold in theafternoon light, then turned away, bidding him good-bye in a low voice.
"Are you g-going?" he blurted out, not knowing exactly what he wassaying.
She moved on in silence. He looked after her. A perfectly illogicalfeeling of despair overwhelmed him.
"For Heaven's sake, don't go away!" he said.
She moved on a pace, another, more slowly, hesitated, halted, leisurelylooked back over her shoulder.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I said--I said--I said----" but he began to stammer fearfully and couldget no farther.
Perhaps she thought he was threatened with some kind of seizure; anyway,something about him apparently interested her enough to slowly retraceher steps.
"What is the matter, Mr. Sayre?" she asked.
"Why, _that's_ funny!" he said; "you know my name?"
"Yes, I know your name."
"Could--would--should--might----" he could get no farther.
"What?"
"M-might I--would it be--could you----"
"Are you trying to ask me what is _my_ name?"
"Yes," he said; "did you think I was reciting a lesson in grammar?"
Suddenly the rare smile played delicately along the edges of her upcurledmouth.
"No," she said, "I knew you were embarrassed. It wasn't nice of me. But,"and her face grew grave, "there is no use in my telling you my name."
"Why?"
"Because we shall not meet again."
"Won't you ever let me--give me a chance--because--you know,somehow--seeing you yesterday--and to-day--this way----"
"Yes, I know what you mean."
"Do you?"
"Yes. _I_ came back, too," she said seriously.
A strange, inexplicable tingling pervaded him.
"You came--came----"
"Yes. I should not have done it, because I saw you perfectly plainlyyesterday. But--somehow I hoped--somehow----"
"What!"
"That there had been a mistake."
"You thought you knew me?"
"Oh, no. I knew perfectly well I had never before seen you. That made nodifference. It wasn't that. But I thought--hoped--I had made a mistake.In fact," she said, with a slight effort, "I was dishonest with myself. Iknew all the time that it was useless. And as soon as I saw you with yourcap off----"
"W-what!" he faltered.
A slight blush, perfectly distinct in her creamy skin, grew, then waned.
"I am sorry," she said. "Of course, you do not understand what I amsaying; and I can not explain. . . . And I think I had--better--go."
"Please don't."
"That is an added reason for my going."
"What is?"
"Your saying 'please don't.'"
He looked at her, bewildered, and slowly passed his hand across his eyes.
"Somehow," he said, "this is all like magic to me. Here in the wildernessI hear a stick crack----"
"I meant you to hear it. I could have moved without a sound."
"And, looking up, I see the most beautif--I see--you. Then I dream ofyou."
"_Did_ you?"
"Every moment--between mosquitoes! And then to-day I returned, hoping."
She lost a trifle of her colour.
"Hoping--what?"
"T-t-to s-s-see you," he stammered.
"I _must_ go," she said under her breath, almost hurriedly; "this muststop _now_!"
"Won't you--can't you--couldn't I----"
"No. No--no--no--Mr. Sayre."
He said: "I've simply got to see you again. I know what I'masking--saying--hoping--wishing--isn't usual--conventional--advisable,b-b-but I can't help it."
Standing there facing him she slowly shook her head.
"There is no use," she said. "It is perfectly horrid of me to have comeback. I somehow was afraid--from the expression of your faceyesterday----"
"Afraid of what?"
She hesitated; then, lifting her grey eyes, fearlessly:
"Afraid that you might wish to see me again. . . . Because I felt thesame way."
"Do you mean," he cried, "that I--that you--that we--Oh, Lord! I'm noteloquent, but every faltering, stuttering, stammering, fool of a word I_do_ say means a million things----"
"Oh, I know it, Mr. Sayre. I know it. I have no business here; I _must_not remain----"
"If you go, you know I'll do some absurd thing--like poking my head underwater and holding it there, or walking backward off that l
edge. Do youknow--if you should suddenly go away now, and if that ended it----"
"Ended--what?"
"You know," he said.
She may have known, for she stood very still, with head lowered anddowncast eyes. As for Sayre, what common sense he possessed had gone. Thethrilling unreality of it all--the exquisite irrational, illogicalintoxication of the moment--her beauty--the mystery of her--and of thestill, sunlit woods, had made of them both, and the forest world aroundthem, an enchanted dream which he was living, every breath a rapture,every heart-beat an excited summons from the occult.
"Mr. Sayre," she said, with an effort, "I shall not tell you my name; butif you ever again should happen to think of me, think of my name as thename of the girl in that poem which I heard you reciting yesterday."
"Amourette?"
"Yes. That was the name of the poem and of the girl. You may call meAmourette--when you are thinking of me alone by yourself."
"Did you like that poem?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because--I wrote it."
"You!" She lost a little of her colour.
"Yes," he said, "I wrote it--Amourette."
"Then--then I had better go away as fast as I can," she murmured.
With an enraptured smile verging perilously upon the infatuated, if notfatuous, he repeated her name aloud; and she looked at him out of softgrey eyes that seemed at once fascinated and distressed.
"Please let me go," she said.
He was not detaining her.
"Won't you?" she asked, pitifully.
"No, I won't," said William Sayre, suddenly invaded by an instinct thathe possessed authority in the matter. "We must talk this thing over."
"Oh, but there isn't any use--really, truly there isn't! Won't youbelieve me?"
"No," he said as honestly as he could through the humming exaltation thatsang in him until, to himself, he sounded like a beehive.
There was a fallen log all over moss behind her.
"We ought to be seated to properly consider this matter," he said.
"I must not think of it! I must go instantly."
When they were seated, and he had nearly twisted his head off trying tomeet her downcast eyes, he resumed a normal and less parrot-like posture,and folded his arms portentously.
"To begin," he said, "I came here fishing. I heard a stick crack----"
She looked up.
"_That_ was my fault. It was all my fault. I don't know how I ever cameto do it. I never did such a thing in my life. We merely heard that youand Mr. Langdon were in the woods----"
"_Who_ heard?"
"We. Never mind the others. I'll say that _I_ heard you were here.And--and I took my--my net and came to--to----"
"To what?"
"To--investigate."
"Investigate what? _Me_?"
"Y-yes. I can't explain. But I came, honestly, naturally, unsuspiciously.And as soon as I saw you I was quite sure that you were not what--whatcertain people wanted, even if you were the author of _Amourette_----"
"'To begin,' he said, 'I came here fishing.'"]
"_I_ was not what _you_ wanted?" he repeated, bewildered.
"I mean that--that you were not what--what _they_ required----"
"They? Who are _they_? And what, in Heaven's name, did 'they' require?"
"I don't want to tell you, Mr. Sayre. All I shall say is that I knewimmediately that they didn't want _you_, because you are not up to theUniversity standard. And you won't understand that. I ought to have gonequietly away. . . . I don't know why I didn't. I was so interested inlistening to you recite, and in looking at you. I loved your poem,_Amourette_. . . . And two hours slipped by----"
"You stood there in the bushes looking at _me_ for two hours, _and_listening to my poem--and _liking_ it?"
"Yes, I did. . . . I don't know why. . . . And then, somehow, without anyapparent reason, I wanted you to see _me_ . . . without any apparentreason . . . and so I stepped on a dry stick. . . . And to-day I cameback . . . without any apparent reason. . . . I don't know what on earthhas happened to make me--make me--forget----"
"Forget what?"
"Everything--except----"
"Except what?"
She looked up at him with clear grey eyes, a trifle daunted.
"Forget everything except that I--like you, Mr. Sayre."
He said: "That is the sweetest and most fearless thing a woman ever said.I am absurdly happy over it."
She waited, looking down at her linked fingers.
"And," he said, "for the first time in all my life I have cared more forwhat a woman has said to me than I care for anything on earth."
There was a good deal of the poet in William Sayre.
"Do you mean it?" she asked, tremulously.
"I mean more."
"I--I think you had better not say--more."
"Why?"
"Because of what I told you. There is no use in your--your findingme--interesting."
"Are you married?" he asked, so guilelessly that she blushed and deniedit with haste.
His head was spinning in a sea of pink clouds. Harps were playingsomewhere; it may have been the breeze in the pines.
"Amourette," he repeated in a sort of divine daze.
"I am--going," she said, in a low voice.
"Do you desire to render me miserable for life?" he asked so seriouslythat at first she scarcely realised what he had said. Then blush andpallor came and went; she caught her breath, looked up at him,beseechingly.
"Everything is wrong," she said in the ghost of a voice. "Things arehurrying me--trying to drive me headlong. I must go. Let me go, now."
And she sat very still, and closed her eyes. A second later she openedthem.
"Why did you come?" she asked almost fiercely. "There was no use in it!Why did you come into these woods for that foolish newspaper? By thistime the Associated Press, the police, and the families of the men youare looking for have received letters from every one of the four missingyoung men, saying that they are perfectly well and happy and expect toreturn--after their honeymoons."
Flushed, excited, beautiful in her animation, she faced the astoundedyoung man who stared at her wildly through his eye-glasses.
After a while he managed to ask whether she wished him to believe thatthese four young men had each eloped with their soul mates.
She bit her lip. "To be accurate," she said in a low voice, "somebodyeloped with each one of them."
"How? I don't understand!"
"I don't wish you to. . . . Good-bye."
"You mean," he demanded, incredulously, "that four girls ran away withthese four big, hulking young men?"
"Practically."
"That's ridiculous! Besides, it's impossible! Besides--women don't runmen off like cattle rustlers. Man is the active agent in elopements,woman the passive agent."
She did not answer.
"Isn't she?"
She made no reply.
He said: "Amourette, shall I illustrate what I mean--with you as thepassive agent?"
The girl bent over a little, then with a sudden movement she dropped herhead in her hands. A moment later he saw a single tear fall between herfingers.
He looked east, west, north, south, and finally up into the sky. Seeingnobody, the silly expression left his otherwise interesting face; agraver, gentler light grew in his eyes. And he put one arm around hersupple waist.
"Something is dreadfully wrong," he said; "all this must beexplained--our strange encounter, our speaking, our talking at crosspurposes, our candid interest in each other--the sudden, swift, unfeignedfriendship that was born the instant that our eyes encountered----"
"I know it. It _was_ born. Oh, I know it. I _know_ it, and I could nothelp it--somehow--somehow----"
"It--it was almost like--like--love at first sight," he whispered.
"It was--something like it--I am afraid----"
"Do you think it _was_ love?"
"I don't know. . . . Do you?"
"I
don't know. . . . You mustn't cry. Put your head down--here. Youmustn't be distressed."
"I am, dreadfully."
"You mustn't be."
"I can't help it--now."
"Could you help it if you--loved me?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no! It would distress me beyond measure to--to love you. Oh,it must not be--it must not happen to me----"
"It is already happening to _me_."
"Don't let it! Don't let it happen to either of us! Please--please----"
"But--it _is_ happening all the while, Amourette."
She drew a swift, startled sigh.
"Is _that_ what it is that is happening to me, too, Mr. Sayre?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Oh, oh, _oh_!" she sobbed, hiding her face closer to his shoulder.
"Amourette! Darling! Dea----"
"L-listen. Because now I've got to tell you all about the disappearanceof those perfectly horrid young specimens of physical perfection. Andafter that you will abhor me!"
"Abhor _you_! Dearest--dearest and most divine of women!"
"Wait!" she sobbed. "I've got myself and you into the most awful scrapeyou ever dreamed of by falling in love with you at first sight!"
And she turned her face closer to his shoulder and slipped one desperatelittle hand into his.